Sorrow Is Just All the Rage
by droppedmysonic
Summary: "It really pissed me off." If he'd never said it, he wouldn't be in this wreck... No, he's lying to himself again. It had been looming on the horizon for a while now. Kurt was just the calm before the storm that set it off.
1. Chapter 1

Kurt stares blankly at Pavarotti, chirping happily from behind the metal bars. He can't decide if the bird is an idiot or just genuinely content... Maybe because all the canary knows is this cage, and it doesn't realize just what it's missing. It has never met the turquoise of a summer sky. It never will.

Kurt was not raised in a cage. He knows the sky, and he misses it.

Blaine keeps insisting that he should give it time. He should relax and stop trying so hard. Everything at Dalton is easy. He regrets running away from his bullies, but not for the cowardice – he didn't feel safe, and he feels sure that escaping the danger was the right decision.

Leaving his friends, leaving the feral animals, the wild beasts that he knew was the wrong decision. Any one of them, himself included, could chew up the Warblers and spit them out. No matter how much Kurt inexplicably finds himself revolving around Blaine, he can't help but think he's the satellite to a lesser planet. Blaine is a conformist of the worst sort – the content sort.

Kurt can't do this anymore.

When he auditions for a Regionals solo, he doesn't expect to get a solo. He knows he won't, actually, because he'll be singing with New Directions at Regionals. He's made that decision.

He snaps his fingers calmly before opening his mouth to sing, without accompaniment. "You're not alone" is the most disconsolate statement he's ever heard, because in this room, he is certainly special, and he is made to stand up and out, DAMN the hammers that would nail him down.

"You're a canary, I'm a coal mine, 'cause sorrow is just all the rage. Take one for the team. You all know what I mean," he croons soulfully. "And I'm so sorry, but not really," he laughs. "Tell the boys where to find my body. New York eyes, Chicago thighs, pushed up the window to kiss you off. The truth," he sings, sliding easily into the high notes, "hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you. The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you. Do you remember the way I held your hand? Under the lamp post and ran home..." He glances at Blaine, who looks confused but awed. "This way, so many times, I could close my eyes..." Kurt trails off before he explodes into song again. "The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you. The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you..." He repeats these lines, ascending the scales, putting every ounce of emotion he has into the performance.

There's silence. Utter silence before -

"Did I try hard enough that time?" Softly, but with a sharp edge, before he pivots on his heel and walks out to stunned silence.

Rachel will be proud when he tells her.

The room is already cleaned out when Blaine goes to check on Kurt. Pavarotti's cage remains, though – open and empty, save for a note inside.

"_Domesticated animals don't stand much of a chance in the wild, but given the chance, nearly all of them would fly to freedom anyway. They may be scared. They may not know what awaits them. But they know something better lies beyond their fear. That is the meaning of courage._

_Not many animals can let themselves out of their cages. That requires one smart animal, and I'm not going to brag, but – okay, I'm going to brag. I'm brilliant (that's a lame joke, which I seem to be very good at making)._

_So I've left you the way out. You're the one who has to have the courage to take it, though. I won't fault you if you don't, canary boy. If you want to stay content and safe in your cage, I won't blame you. If I was a different man, I might be content to stay in a cage too._

_But I'm me. Kurt Hummel, the fabulous little monster that could eat canaries for dinner. And as Cedes would say, I gotta do me. And you gotta do you._

_Who are you, Blaine?"_

Blaine leafs through the sheaf of papers.

Transfer papers.

To McKinley.

He slides them into a drawer of his desk. He doesn't leave them out; he doesn't throw them away. He shuts them away (like every other conflict in his life) until he is brave enough to face them.

Blaine isn't sure that day will ever come.


	2. Chapter 2

_Who are you, Blaine?_

Those four words are what echo most painfully in his mind, because he doesn't have an answer. He doubts either of his "best friends" would either – all they know is that he has a good voice and can captivate an audience, and that's all they care about.

His fingers dance along the knob of the second drawer down on the left side of his desk. It's empty except for a taunting sheaf of papers.

Could he ever go back to that? To people who hate an immutable fact of who he is? At Dalton, they prune his personality back, but personalities can change like the seasons. It's different. He can change that about himself and shift like a chameleon to be the kind of person they want. It's the people would have him change what kind of person _he _wants that hurt the most.

He was lying when he told Kurt that he always regretted running away. He wasn't sure why at the time, but now he knew – deep down, he was always fully aware that Kurt was not and could not be a Warbler. He was built for the histrionics and theatrics that came hand-in-hand with the genuine, heartfelt emotion of New Directions, not the toy soldier mentality of Dalton, where they all get put in boxes and they all come out the same.

Before Kurt Hummel, he could have spent his life in the little cage without ever wanting more, but now those stupid transfer papers were always going to be on his mind. Kurt Hummel would always be on his mind, with his way of swooping into Blaine's life and turning it right on its perfectly gelled head, with his pretty, wide eyes that held equal amounts of trust and disdain.

It was like Kurt knew he could do better if he tried.

Blaine opens the drawer without looking in it and uncaps a pen, tapping it on the desk. After a few moments, he glances into the drawer and loses his nerve, slamming it shut.

His older cousin lives in Lima. She would let him stay with her if he really wanted to go to school there. It wouldn't be particularly hard from a legal standpoint. His parents had enough money to grease all the necessary wheels.

That damn drawer and that damn boy. Always at the back of his mind, every time his voice nearly spirals out of control at Warblers practice, every time Wes and David send slight disapproving frowns in his direction, every time the Council unanimously decides that this person or another should have a solo and Blaine should stand in the background.

He was never upset by the background before. Before Kurt Hummel. It was like his life was divided into two sections – before Kurt and after Kurt. It had been so black and white and easy before Kurt, but now things took on interesting shades of grey, and sometimes Blaine even dreamed in color.

He looks at the papers fully for the first time since Kurt left. It's been two weeks. Regionals is this weekend. All they are is paper. They could rip and tear with a twitch of the finger, float out the window into the spring breeze and never be seen again, go up in flames in moments, or they could give him a way out of the painful circles he's been walking in with one foot nailed to the floor and the other frantic to move, to get out, to go anywhere it can.

He uncaps the pen and writes his name.

Filling them out doesn't mean he'll turn them in.

Except it does, because if there is one thing about Blaine, it's that he doesn't do things halfway. He sees them through.

The last few lines he fills out are almost totally illegible before he manages to cap the pen with hands that shake so bad he stabs himself more than a few times before succeeding. It takes him three tries to get his cousin's number dialed properly and countless times for his father's.

He never quite manages to get Kurt's before falling to the floor in a little ball and shuddering, crying slightly hysterically.

It's terrifying to think of what he's going back to, what the people will say, what Kurt will say for making him wait, what the Warblers will say for him leaving the week of Regionals (but then again, he was in the background. He didn't matter much) and what will happen, because unlike predictable, safe Dalton, anything could happen at McKinley.

He goes in fearful little mental circles all night. A senior comes in the morning and knocks softly at his door. "Your father is here for you," the boy says curiously. Blaine nods, swallowing down a lump in his throat and wobbles down to the office to stare up into his father's grey-green eyes that are almost like Kurt's. The older man smiles sympathetically at him for a few moments before returning to initialing papers.

"Brianne's in the car waiting for you. Go out and thank her," he says calmly.

Blaine nods, clutching painfully at air, digging his fingernails into his palm. The woman in the back seat of the car swings her head to look at him and smiles at his bedraggled appearance, pushing some of the stray curls off his face before pulling him into a hug. He leans against her, exhausted.

"You're being very brave, sweetie," she whispers.

He's asleep before his father gets back to the car. "They're sending his things to your house later," the man says quietly to the favorite niece that has always seemed more like his daughter. He turns to his wife, silent and disapproving in the front seat and shakes his head before dropping his so-called "disappointment of a son" and that "hippie of a niece" off at the small house the young woman owned.

He wakes to soft voices conversing in French. Odd. He can't understand a single word of it, or quite figure out where he is until he recognizes the one voice as Brianne's. The layout of the room suddenly clicks into place with his memories and he pulls the blanket back over his head before trying to go back to sleep.

Then the other voice laughs, and Blaine sits bolt upright before darting out of bed and nearly running into a wall to skid into the living room and find Kurt and Brianne sitting side-by-side on the couch with cups of tea, chatting in French like old friends.

Suddenly everything freezes, and Blaine can see every single thought racing through Kurt's head before one of those soft, white hands reaches out for him. Blaine crosses the room to take it and drop to his knees in front of Kurt, looking helpless and confused in front of the younger boy, whose other hand drifts up to cup Blaine's cheek in a gesture of comfort and affection.

"_J'ai ai été_ _en attente por vous," _Kurt whispers, and Blaine has no idea what he just said, but suddenly Blaine has an overwhelming feeling that everything will be okay.


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine is surprised by how easily he shrugs off being thrown into lockers. None of the bullies here have enough brains to hurt him emotionally. They really are a pack of Neanderthals, and Blaine wants to giggle with relief.

He can do this.

This is almost easier than Dalton.

Kurt keeps asking him if he's okay every time a new bruise the shape of a locker door starts to form, or his lip splits and paints something a slick, sticky red. Blaine shrugs it off every time, smiling. Frankly, it saves him the trouble of doing it himself, though he would never admit to anyone that he'd ever started hurting himself or why he stopped.

His mind's eye traces the network of scars on his right thigh. They're numb and thick and they remind him constantly of the way he used to be.

The way he still wants to be, sometimes.

The way he can't be. Not anymore.

He can totally do this.

At least until someone a little smarter than the Neanderthals comes along. No one would have ever guessed that this would be what would finally get to Blaine. Not this insignificant worm.

Jacob Ben-Israel.

Figures.

The questions seem innocent enough at first. The self-styled reporter wants a confirmation or denial of whether or not he and Kurt are dating. He denies – they're not. They're really not.

The rumor mill ignores their mutual denial of a relationship and starts spinning. That's when the lies start. "Who tops and who bottoms?" Ben-Israel asks. Blaine winces but keeps walking. The questions only get more personal and more invasive and the rumors get worse and worse until someone echoes a statement he heard quite often –

"Slut."

And shit. That's when the tears start. Because he's not a slut. He's not, he's not, he's not, he hasn't even seen a guy naked, not even in porn, because it terrifies him. It terrifies him to think of anything like that because then he'd just be proving them all right. In that moment, all of the memories come flooding back like the deluge that God sent to drown the sinners and he hears every word, every accusation again.

"_Failure."_

He can distance himself from the physical pain.

"_Whore."_

It's harder to distance himself from the emotional pain.

"_Bet your knees are all scratched up from sucking off the teachers so you pass."_

You start to develop these personalities. They're not you.

"_God, you're so ugly I bet you have to get animals to fuck you."_

You wear them, and people hate you anyway. But they're not you.

"_Idiot."_

It doesn't hurt as much if it's not really you. You start to wear them all the time.

_They made animal noises at him. Animal noises._

You let yourself forget who you are, so that you don't have to hurt.

_Every time he opened his mouth._

You have all these pretty masks, these ugly masks, and you start to wear them in private, too.

"_Worthless."_

Method acting.

"_Slut."_

And then you wake up one morning and you're still wearing last night's mask.

"_Disgusting."_

"Who am I?"

"_Your shit probably doesn't even touch the sides anymore, you cockslut."_

And you realize… you don't know. You don't know anything about who you are anymore, because you're so used to wearing these pretty masks that get some people to like who they think you are and these ugly masks that get people to hate someone who isn't you, and the real you has shrunken to skin and bones from hunger because you haven't so much as looked at it. And it stares back at you with heartbroken, empty eyes because no one has bothered to love it. Love you. Just those pretty masks you wear. And maybe everyone else hates those ugly masks of yours, but you yourself hate what you've hidden behind it, because you've started to believe every lie they tell you. And you realize the real you might be dying. Might already be dead. So you panic and you tie the masks on a little tighter onto that love-starved soul and hope that if it's dead, no one notices that you're a walking corpse wearing a mask.

It gets to you after a while. It really gets to you, and it hurts worse than fists and knees and feet sprawled across the aisle to trip you because you don't have a soul. You _are_ a soul and you _have_ a body, and if they hurt that body, that's no big deal, really, but when they hurt your soul, everything else goes down with it.

Blaine only dimly perceives that he's on the floor when an icy voices demand that people move, leave, get out, because there's nothing to see here.

He blinks his way through some of the tears, and weird, he always thought that Mr. Schuester and that Sylvester woman hated each other, but they're looking at him with these identical looks of pity and uncertainty, and the blonde girl – Brittany or Quinn, he can't remember which – is on her phone, talking angrily… It must be Quinn, because he remembers Brittany is the ditzy one. And it must be important because the teachers aren't stopping her, and that's when she snaps the phone shut and Kurt is there and he looks absolutely terrified. This is downright bizarre.

Then the teachers are pulling Blaine to his feet and he tries to remember when he ended up on the floor and everything that's just happened finally sinks in.

He starts sobbing, and this time he's aware of it. He must look so stupid and so weak right now, and dammit, Kurt's going to see through the masks, he just knows it, because he never had any business trying to give Kurt advice and trying to keep him together when he couldn't even keep himself together. The first time he ever put on that mentor mask, it cracked right across the center, splitting at the corners of the mouth like the Joker and he knew which phrase cracked it –

"It really pissed me off."

He let that zombie inside of him show for a second and it tried to push its fingers out through the mouth of the mask and pry it open, and before he could shut his lips around the monster, it had already done the damage.

It occurs to him that he's been led to the choir room and Quinn is at the door, frowning, while the teachers argue quietly at the desk and Kurt sits next to Blaine, holding him up and stroking his hair. Then this woman with these big doe eyes and red hair flutters in and makes a beeline for him, her already wide eyes widening.

"Are you okay?"

Kurt's harsh laughter is what cracks him out of his reverie, and he chuckles a little himself when Kurt starts to talk. "Oh, he's just fiiiine, Mrs. Pillsbury-Howard. Because people who are okay always collapse in the middle of the freakin' hallway and sob uncontrollably. Totally normal."

"Kurt, she's trying to help and your rude behavior is unacceptable," Mr. Schuester starts to reprimand.

"No, no, it's okay, Will," the woman says. "He's worried about his… friend –" her eyes dart to Kurt to make sure that she's used the right noun – "and he's nervous. And it was a stupid question, clearly you're not okay," she shakes her head, addressing Blaine directly and waiting with those big, big eyes and he just stares at her, because the zombie has finally crawled out and has peeled off the mask.

Kurt tries to gently turn his head, to get Blaine to look at him, but Blaine refuses to comply. Kurt keeps trying though, and after what seems like an eternity, he's just too tired to fight and meets Kurt's eyes.

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispers.

"…What?"

"I did this. I pressured you to leave," he explains. "I push everyone until I push them away…"

And okay, it is all Kurt's fault, because he was the one who helped to cause that schism in the flawed porcelain mask Blaine put on for him, but it was coming. It had to come sometime, so it's not really Kurt's fault, and Blaine tries to express that, but he's pretty sure he's babbling until Kurt presses warm lips to his temple and shushes him gently.

"Okay," Kurt says softly. "Okay."

Brianne bolts through the door, almost smashing Quinn in the process. She takes in the scene and her face turns stormy as she starts to yell, and Coach Sylvester begins to yell back. Mr. Schuester and Mrs. Pillsbury-Howard try to separate the two for a few minutes before Blaine decides that enough is really enough and stands up a little dizzily – Kurt quickly grabs onto him to steady him.

"Stop," he says weakly, his voice cracking a little. "I'm okay," Blaine says.

Kurt snorts. The rest of the room stares at him with varying degrees of disbelief. He finds that mask of calm, reserved confidence and ties it on as best he can. His Dalton mask. It must look weird without the uniform. "I'm fine," he repeats, his voice more convincing and his usual show face plastered on before he manages to walk in a straight line out of the room, right past Quinn, who almost makes a move to stop him.


End file.
